


Fantastic, a Little Tragic, and Wholly Sublime

by JokerzPrincezz



Series: Of Broken Things and Their Golden Gleams [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: As Above So Below refrences, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, FTM John Watson, Happily Married, Honeymoon, M/M, Paris (City), Trans!John, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 12:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JokerzPrincezz/pseuds/JokerzPrincezz
Summary: “London is a riddle. Paris is an explanation.”― G. K. ChestersonThe newly dubbed Watson-Holmes men solve a deadly crime in the city of love, a city built on the bones of the dead. A perfect honeymoon for the Baker Street duo, without a doubt.





	Fantastic, a Little Tragic, and Wholly Sublime

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not Trans, I don't speak for trans people. If anything comes off as offensive, please talk to me.
> 
> Warnings: brief mention of John's assault at the hands of Moriarty, brief allusion to Sherlock's assault in Serbia.
> 
> the title is from a Victor Hugo quote because I'm really bad at titles, sorry not sorry

Paris was something wonderful, a city of light and bustling people that somehow still felt slower and calmer than London. A truly glorious triumph of western society. John found himself in awe at the beauty that surrounded him. And just as awed, though far more apprehensive, at what lay below his feet. For, but a few meters of modern concrete and land filled the space between him and the resting place of millions of poor souls.

The case, they found once they reached Paris, had skyrocketed from a six to an eight. After two weeks of wandering Parisian back alleys and listening to Sherlock whisper in his smooth French tongue, John found himself stalking behind his husband within the catacombs. Thousands of empty-eyed skulls stared into his soul as he and Sherlock poked their heads around a corner, watching the mass of people.

It had turned out the murders dotting the city were the work of a strange cult which believed the entrance of hell lay deep within the catacombs. Many of their members had already gone missing, presumably left to starve and die after losing themselves within the miles and miles of bones that acted as the groundwork for one of Europe’s greatest cities. The cult had begun sacrificing Parisian citizens who descended from those nameless masses which adorned the catacombs in hopes it would persuade the devil to bequeath them safe passage into hell. (“Why would you even _want_ such a thing?!” _John asked in bewilderment. Sherlock hummed in agreement as he poured over ancient city maps._ )

It took another week of trudging through darkened passages and whispering in the ears of the city’s homeless ( _the true masters of the massive portions of the now closed off and uncharted tunnels_ ) for John and Sherlock to finally stumble across the right stretch of endless corridors. Another two days of stalking said corridors before they finally caught the cult in the act.

“What do we do?” John hissed lowly as the poked their head around the corner once more.

The cult had found a sort of makeshift room set off of one side of a corridor to perform their rituals in. There were perhaps half a dozen members left, all dressed in white linen robes without hoods. They were currently performing some kind of blood rite, cutting the hands and wrists of a select few and bleeding them into a large stone bowl set in the center of the room. John’s inner doctor cringed when he looked at the knife, a long, sharp, dagger riddled with rust and clearly as old as the walls that surrounded it.

At their feet, bound in a corner, was a young woman. She too was donned in the simple linen robe but had a bag over her head. They could hear from her cries that she had been gagged under the bag. Her breathing came quick and her whimpers were intrusive in volume. She seemed unharmed for the moment, but clearly, the young woman was terrified. Every few moments she would cry out in frustration and fear as she fought her bonds fruitlessly.

Sherlock just watched for a moment before pulling his head back. John didn’t bother to hiss his question again. After a moment, Sherlock pulled something from his massive coat.

“Is that-“ John gasped in alarm.

“A grenade, yes.”

“Sherlock!” John whispered in exasperation, “what the actual _hell_ are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” Sherlock hissed back, “that they are mad, but also fixated on this particular stretch of the catacombs. They truly believe they can reach the devil through these halls. And if they’d like to continue their _search_ ” this word was sneered in venom, “they will peacefully allow us to take the girl and leave. Which, in turn, will buy time for Lestrade’s friend to arrive.”

John wanted to ask how Sherlock had gotten the grenade past airport security, and why the hell he thought it might be useful, but instead just cursed silently, sending up a pointless prayer.

“Fuck,” he hissed, “fucking, _fine_ , you mad man, let’s go. I’ll cover you.” Sherlock looked to him with a fondness and warmth that was so out of place John couldn’t help but replicate it.

With a swish of his ridiculous coat, Sherlock swirled into the room. The chanting stopped and all eyes went to him. The woman holding the dagger, poised to cut another women’s arm, turned the disease-ridden bit of metal on Sherlock.

Sherlock spoke to them in fluent French, John caught the word “ _bomb_ ” and “ _captive_ ” among a few others. He suddenly wished he had taken French in school as opposed to German. The phrase “ _Camée Vatican_ ” rang out and John took that as his cue. He swiftly stood, revealing himself and taking up his place behind Sherlock with his gun leveled at the leader of the cult, a man who headed the history department at _The Sorbonne_. With a ridiculous flick of his wrist, Sherlock showed off the grenade in one hand and twirled the now removed pin in the other.

After a tense few moments the Professor spat something in French at one of the women, she was one of the ones who had her palm slit open in the blood rite, the crimson liquid now staining her white linen robe and fair skin. With a glare that could only be described as murderous, she moved towards the captive and none too gently ripped the bag off the girl’s head. The girl cried out in pain, her head jerking in a way that told John a chunk of her hair had probably been removed along with the bag. She was young, perhaps of legal age, perhaps not, with fair skin and wide brown eyes which watered with tears. She looked around herself in fear, before casting her eyes on John and Sherlock with something like hope. John gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

The bleeding woman sneered at John as she forced the young girl to her feet. The girl was shoved none too gently in his direction and with his right hand, he tugged her behind him. Sherlock again said something in French and all the cult members sullenly stood against the wall opposite John and Sherlock. The woman who had been holding the ancient dagger threw it at Sherlock’s feet with disgust before joining her comrades.

“Sherlock?” John asked breathlessly.

“Walk out backward, slowly, don’t turn your back,” Sherlock said without taking his eyes off the cult members, kicking the dagger behind them and into the corridor where it skidded to a halt against a wall made of skulls. John grunted in acknowledgment. There was another tense moment before the trio began to walk backward. The girl sniffled from behind John. He murmured to her in English, not knowing if she could understand the words of gentleness but hoping she could at least interpret the tone of voice.

Once they had turned the corner Sherlock quickly replaced the pin and pocketed the grenade. “Hurry” he ordered as he turned.

John nodded and took the girl by her upper arm, gently but firmly speed walking her out. When they finally found the secret exit out into a dingy alleyway, littered with needles and glass, John swept the barefooted girl up. She squeaked as the trio ran to the opening of the alleyway. John set the girl down on a low wall and set about untying her. The gag came out first and she broke into loud sobs.

John continued untying her and shushing her gently as Sherlock kept an eye out for any cult members attempting to escape. As soon as the girl’s hands were free, she threw her arms around Johns' neck, babbling in French as she sobbed. John awkwardly patted her back as Sherlock frowned at them. Wither it was from annoyance at the girls blubbering or at John for allowing it, the soldier couldn’t tell.

Less than two minutes later what seemed to be the entirety of the French police force arrived. Sherlock barked at them in an annoyed tone of voice and gestured sharply to the girl who was still clinging to John, and to the alleyway they had just exited. The paramedics began trying to extract the girl from John, but she held tighter, her babbling rising in octaves. John shushed her again and began gently prying her off himself, pushing her gratefully into the arms of the paramedics. As Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him away, John couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.

As they spun to enter the alleyway again and lead the police into the catacombs John swore he caught Sherlock snarl something that sounded like “ _mien_ ”, maybe " _mio"_. Weird. 

* * *

The head of the cult escaped, but Sherlock merely scoffed as he berated the head detective, the friend of Lestrade’s who had initially gotten Sherlock set up on the case, this time in English. He told the man to check an ancient church which the professor had developed an obsession for. Sure enough, as they sat in the back of a cab on the way back to their hotel room for a long, much deserved rest, Sherlock received a call. He simply hummed and gave a curt “ _obviously, good day_ ” before hanging up, his eyes on John the whole time. John lifted an eyebrow in question.

“Well?” he asked as Sherlock hung up.

“Bell tower, he was, rather stupidly, trying to cause the bell to collapse. Utter imbecile.” Sherlock scoffed. John shook his head at his husband.

“How the hell did manage to get a grenade past airport security, anyway?” Sherlock smirked at him and removed said grenade, pulling out the pin and releasing the lever. John’s breath caught…. And nothing happened. After a moment John choked on a laugh.

“Oh, you arse!” he cried.

“Honestly, I’m surprised it worked at all,” Sherlock admitted, grinning at his husband mischievously. After another second, they both dissolved into giggles.

* * *

They arrived at the hotel shortly after, a large, grand structure in the heart of the city. The moment their hotel room door was closed Sherlock crowded John against the entryway wall and kissed him breathless. John gasped helplessly as he succumbed to rough hands tugging at his hair and gripping his shoulder in a bruising grip.

“ _Mine_.” Sherlock sighed, dragging John back to the bedroom. Suddenly something clicked in Johns' head and his face turned into one of disbelief and annoyance as his feet dug into the carpet.

“Wait a second!”

“What?” Sherlock whined sullenly, still tugging John’s clothing off. Though still annoyed, John allowed the detective to shed his coat and shirt.

“Is this why you were so harsh to the girl?” Sherlock's face turned down into a sneer that answered John’s question.

“Sherlock!” he sighed in exasperation.

“I don’t like people touching you.” Sherlock pouted, pulling roughly on the buttons of John’s shirt.

John laid his own hands over Sherlock’s, halting his movement, forcing his husband to meet his eye. “Sherlock, she was barely of age, and absolutely terrified.” John rationalized. Sherlock scowled.

“She was a girl.” He huffed in annoyance. John raised one eyebrow, waiting for Sherlock to expand. “You like girls...” Sherlock grumbled, not meeting Johns' eye. John smiled in fond exasperation at the man.

“You’re an idiot.” John finally decided, tugging Sherlock in by the collar. He felt Sherlock smile against his lips and could picture the blush the detective surely wore. 

* * *

The next day found them peacefully wondering a small marketplace. John had never smelt so many foods, nor seen so many different people all in one place. The air tingled with joy, the sound of a thousand languages rolling over John in waves.

As they passed two or three stands of honey sellers in a row, Sherlock's eyes lit up. His hand slipped from John’s and John allowed it with an indulgent smile. As Sherlock seriously conversed with one of the beekeepers in a rapid language that surely wasn’t French, Johns' eyes drifted. They lit up as they landed on a stack of small squares at the next stall over. 

* * *

A few hours later they found themselves at the top of the Eiffel Tower, John peering through binoculars out at the people below them.

“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock said suddenly. John stood straight, looking out at the city around them.

“It’s amazing what’s right below us,” John replied. Sherlock shrugged.

“All progress is built on the backs of the dead. Paris is just a little more honest about it.” He leaned into John.

John leaned into him.

They stood until the city began to alight itself with electricity and the sun painted the sky in hues of reds and oranges. 

* * *

That night found them at a jazz club not far from the hotel. This was one of the only things Sherlock had insisted on so John was more than thrilled to be here with his love. They danced along the floor in a slow swing. Sherlock smiled freely. John felt himself melt, if only for a moment.

They returned late, though it was relatively early for them. Sherlock immediately kissed John upon the lips and departed for a quick shower. “ _If I keep the smoke on me for much longer, I’ll be tempted._ ” he huffed good-naturedly.

John found himself smiling like a fool as Sherlock showered in the next room. As he took the two chocolates he had purchased that morning from his coat pocket and situated them on a small tea saucer, John found himself humming one of the songs they had danced to.

He liked Sherlock like this. So rarely did the cases take a back seat, so rarely did Sherlock allow himself to experience and feel freely. John thought, perhaps, it was something to do with the anonymity? It had been many, many years since Sherlock was afforded the luxury of simply being a man in love. Probably not since Victor all those decades ago. The detective seemed content to revel in his newfound freedom. No one around them saw the superhuman detective and his trusty sidekick, instead, they were simply two newlyweds, madly in love as they wondered Parisian streets.

It was freeing.

John hummed happily as he stripped and situated himself on their large bed, the small tea saucer balanced on his thigh. Sherlock came out of the shower some long moments later, a white towel slung low across his waist, and another rubbing vigorously at his hair. He slowed his movements as he took in John on their bed. John stretched teasingly, allowing Sherlock to see every bit of him without hesitation or self-consciousness.

“What’s all this, then?” Sherlock asked with a small smirk, his eyes roving across John. The doctor innocently held the tea saucer up.

“Thought you might like a sweetie.” He said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in surprise, but his gaze softened as he dropped the towels carelessly, crawling up the enormous bed, half in John’s lap.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice low, making John shiver delightfully.

“Just try it,” John whispered, pressing the candy against Sherlock’s perfect cupid bow lips. Sherlock met his eyes, his gaze intense, overwhelming as always, before he opened his mouth, taking a bite of the large sweet. His eyes closed for a moment as he tried to make a show of enjoying the candy for John ( _as if John wasn’t already rearing to go, bloody beautiful prick_ ) before his eyes snapped open in delight.

With his mouth still full of the sticky sweet he grinned like a child. “Chocolate covered honeycombs!” he said in wonder.

John flushed and grinned at his husband's delight, “I found some at the market this morning. I thought you’d like it. Have you ever had it?” Sherlock smiled at him fondly, that smile that said he was grateful to John.

“Yes,” he said, voice thick from sentiment or chocolate, John couldn’t tell. “My grandfather would take the honeycombs and hand dip them in chocolate every once in a while.” Sherlock took another bite, closing his eyes and humming gladly. John smiled as he took a bite himself, humming in agreement. The honeycomb stuck to their teeth; the chocolate coated the top of their mouths.

When they kissed, it tasted of honey and love.

John gasped as Sherlock slid over him after setting the plate aside, straddling, holding the doctor’s arms over his head gently, kindly. They hadn’t yet done this, John didn’t like the idea of being a passive partner, hated the idea of being submissive in any way. He suddenly shifted; a bit uncomfortable at how deliciously his body was responding to this.

“Sherl-“ he said, hesitant.

“Shh,” Sherlock hushed him, his sticky sweet mouth kissing down the length of Johns' neck, “it’s ok, love. Trust me, I know what you want.”

“What?!” John squawked indignantly, flushing at Sherlock’s presumptuousness ( _why he bothered anymore, no one could tell._ ) beginning to shift, fighting Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock huffed in annoyance and sat back, still grasping John’s wrists as the soldier set his hands against Sherlock’s chest, ready to shove the man off.

“You enjoy being the submissive one, not often, but you still like it,” Sherlock said in minor irritation. John flushed.

“Like hell-“

“Yes, you do.” Sherlock cut him off, frowning at the man, “and it’s not just with me, it’s certainly not new. I’m not saying you want whips and chains and collars, but you enjoy submitting to someone who deserves it. I’d wager you always have; you spent your childhood trying to constantly appease a man who didn’t deserve your submission. Of course you would naturally seek out men who do later in life. Sholto? Me? The army?”

“I was a bloody captain,” John growled, relaxing further into the bed, his feathers still ruffled, but intrigued by Sherlock’s unraveling of his past.

“Where you would still have had to obey your superiors.” Sherlock snapped. They stared each other down until something in Sherlock’s face softened. “I thought you didn’t want Moriarty to have a place in our bed?” he whispered, eyes a little heartbroken.

John swallowed, feeling gutted. Because that was what this was about, wasn’t it? Those few moments of being bound, forced to bend and submit, just like he had as a child under his fathers’ boot, forced to cry, his body stolen. Just a few moments and John found himself holding back from Sherlock for years, decades, centuries. John had always held himself back, always restrained himself. Even in the one place there was meant to be no restraint.

“I hate when you do that.” John choked out thickly, blinking back tears. Sherlock gave him a bittersweet smile.

“No, you don’t.” he murmured. John relaxed in margins, toes uncurling, thighs unclenching, finally, his hands going lax in Sherlock's grip, allowing the younger man to gently pin him to the bed.

“Let me take care of you,” Sherlock said quietly, thumb stroking over John’s inner wrists. John fought himself for another moment, half of his brain twisting and writhing in an animal fear, part of his brain serenely quiet for the first time since he awoke in that dilapidated warehouse, since he was shot in the desert, since he signed the dotted line and got himself shipped off to war, since he left home at 18, since his father straddled his chest at 16 and forced a bottle of liquor down his throat, hell, perhaps for the first time since the day he was born.

After a moment of careful analysis, Sherlock leaned down and kissed John on the forehead. The action brought safe moments and memories to mind, his gran kissing his head as a child after braiding his hair, his mum kissing him before sending him off to bed or into school, Harry placing a kiss on his head as he sniffled in her bed after a nightmare or an argument with their Da’. Moments of vulnerability and love and safety. John relaxed, breathing out a sigh of relief, his body warm and soft under Sherlock.

“Keep your hands here,” Sherlock muttered into his skin. John could barely manage to hum in acknowledgment, body too lax mind too free to concentrate. After a second Sherlock kissed his way down Johns' chest, paying attention to Johns’ collarbone, to his scars, places that caused John to gasp in pleasure. Like electricity thrumming in his veins. Sherlock's wedding ring hit his skin every now and then, a jolt of cold metal warmed with a commitment that made John whine and shift.

Finally, Sherlock found his way between Johns' thighs. “Lift your legs.” He commanded, gentle and firm all at once. His commands came with no threat, no consequences. John was free to obey if and how he so chose. Free to put a stop to all of this, as gentle as it was, at any moment. And for this reason, John lifted and parted his thighs, baring himself to Sherlock's gaze and touch.

“Perfect.” Sherlock sighed. His sigh the same as the one he gave when he came home from a long case and fell into bed beside John. Relief, comfort, safety, a sense of rightness, a sigh that meant, “ _home, finally_ ”. Because John was home for Sherlock, just as Sherlock was home for John. Johns' toes curled in delight.

Sherlock kissed and nipped at his thighs, a random pattern slowly making its way to Johns’ center. With one hand Sherlock finally spread John open. The action made the older man flush in pleasure, he was open, he was wet, he was _ravenous_ for Sherlock. Only Sherlock. After an eternity Sherlock finally licked John from his opening to the tip of his prick. The action made John gasp, his eyes flying open and hips shifting. The direct contact felt like almost too much after so many long moments of teasing brushes.

“Keep your eyes closed and do try to stay still,” Sherlock said in the same manner he told John to pass him the sugar. Whining low in his throat, John nodded frantically and squeezed his eyes shut, lowering his hips back down.

“Good boy.” Sherlock murmured before diving back between Johns' thighs, ravishing the older man with teeth and tongue. John cried out in shock at the jolt Sherlock’s words sent through him. Sherlock chuckled against his skin, causing John to groan.

“Please,” John breathed.

“Hush now, John. I’ll give you what you need.” Sherlock soothed, right hand dipping between Johns' thighs, fingers sliding into the older man effortlessly. God, Sherlock always managed to get John so wet, open and aching for him.

With Sherlock's mouth on his cock and Sherlock’s fingers inside him, John found himself on the brink, the effort of keeping his hands and hips still only turning him on more. The idea of pleasing Sherlock with his obedience almost sending him over the edge.

As John was readying to open his mouth and beg Sherlock to “ _please, god fuck me!_ ” Sherlock sat up and leaned back over his husband. Sherlock prick slipped against John, causing the older man to groan low in his throat.

“So good for me, my John. So good.” Sherlock gasped, he sounded breathless. John gripped the sheets where his hands had been placed. A moment later he groaned as Sherlock finally, fucking _finally_ , slid home. Always so slick and warm and tight inside him. Always, because that never changed, no matter how many times they did this, Sherlock still filled John just right. As he slid in, Sherlock leaned over John, grasping his wrists once more, holding John down.

“Open your eyes.” Sherlock ground out, he sounded wrecked. John blinked quickly, gasping and arching into his husband.

“Alright?” Sherlock gasped, placing his forehead against Johns, a chaste kiss on his lips. John almost responded verbally but caught himself and instead nodded. Sherlock met his eyes and smiled, all soft edges and pride.

“You’re doing so well, love. I’m so proud of you. I love you so much.” Sherlock said, kissing Johns forehead, his cheeks, his eyes lids, his lips. “ _So much_ ” he gasped, moving slightly. John choked on his breath, nodding frantically. _Me too_ , he whispered in his mind, willing Sherlock to hear him, _me too, me too, me too_.

Sherlock fucked him gently, agonizingly slow thrusts, swiveling his hips inside John, causing the older man to groan and grunt in pleasure, his eyes nearly crossing. The strain of obeying, of staying still and quiet was just enough to hold John on the edge. After another few moments of the gentle fucking, Sherlock whimpered and moved, holding both of Johns' wrists in one hand, with the other hand he gripped Johns’ hip in a bruising grip, finding enough traction to fuck into John faster. John groaned and whined, toes curling with the effort of not writhing.

“Can you come like this?” Sherlock asked, strained. John nodded frantically, because yes, god _yes_ , just a bit faster, yes, yes. Sherlock sped up, answering his bodies animal call.

“Now.” Sherlock hissed, his eyes closing tight in pleasure as his pace picked up, every thrust rubbing against Johns’ prick perfectly, “god John, _now_.” And John felt himself obey. His whole body went taut and he cried out in blinding pleasure.

A moment later Sherlock fell into bed beside him, pulling him in tight.

“You ok?” the genius said once he’d gotten his breath back. John could only grunt and wriggle himself in closer. Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “That good?”

“Shudd’up” John moaned weakly into his husband’s collar bone.

“I love you too.” Sherlock murmured against his cheek, kissing him sweetly. John could almost see Sherlock thinking.

“Wah?” John finally slurred out.

“Would you… ever want to do more? Then that, I mean.” Sherlock asked, shy. John bit his lip, rubbing his forehead against Sherlock's pec as he thought.

“Maybe.” He finally said, “maybe. But… Slowly. This was… perfect. I don’t know how much more-“

“I understand,” Sherlock whispered, no judgment because he did understand. Totally, completely. He _always_ understood.

“I love you,” John whispered, lifting his face to lay a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips. When he broke away Sherlock was looking at him with fond amazement. Still baffled in the face of John’s affection and loyalty, even after all these years. Still looking at John as if he was something glorious and treasured.

“I love you too.” Sherlock murmured, gently guiding John’s head back to Sherlock's chest.

They fell asleep wrapped in each other, the lights of Paris glowing gently outside their curtains. The world temporarily held at bay, this single moment protected and honored.


End file.
